Toddler Stomp I



Identitarians had a movement,

in their cribs, was this improvement;

fear and loathing, social mutants,

can’t dissuade, diverse inducements.


Zealot’s cause, an ouvert fuss,

a mental pause, that feigns disgust;

with simple minds, and not to show,

they’re wearing blinds, but do not know.


The rate at which they spiral-round,

their self-indulgent, viral sounds;

into their toddler’s play pens, thus,

the eerie smell of history’s dust.









The mantle that they wear is treason,

pending evolution’s season.

Can’t they be a part of us,

or are they too far gone to trust?


Being racial has its twists,

you‘ve shat your bed, and still insist,

your sheets are white, and holy, blissed,

but to your end, you’ll be dismissed.


Your fecal facials, shant persist,

as beings, humans, coexist;

these living souls, deserve much better,

aboriginals, endeavor.



© 2020 Dayglow Black. All rights reserved.

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